


The Playful Man

by dominodamsel



Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Character Study, Exploration of Cultural Differences between Ylisse and Nohr, M/M, Pining, Xander is a gay mess, Xanlow Week 2017, a lot of pining actually, set in revelations but the game's plot doesn't matter that much actually, trans Laslow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-22 22:27:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12492200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dominodamsel/pseuds/dominodamsel
Summary: A story of a prince whose heart got stolen by a stranger.Written for Xanlow Week 2017





	The Playful Man

**Author's Note:**

> Laslow is an enigma, and Xander is helpless.

The very first time that Xander had laid eyes upon Laslow, he had been intrigued.

 

His father had summoned him to the throne room; in itself, it was not a rare occurrence, but still it left Xander anxious each time, not knowing what news could be so important, what mistake so grave, that his father needed to look down at him with his cold eyes and speak to him personally. Xander’s anxiety reached a new high when Camilla and Leo joined him; neither of them spoke a word, but all of them were nervous. They wondered what the King might want with them. They wondered why all three of them were summoned. They could not be sure they would not be punished, for one thing or another.

 

The large, ornate doors to the throne room were open, and Xander saw the three strangers kneeling below the throne even before the judging eyes of the court found him. His face betrayed no surprise, he was sure of it. Surprise was a weak emotion that betrayed vulnerability, something which was not welcome in the Nohrian court.

 

His father, in lieu of greeting his children, had addressed the strangers: “Get up and turn around; your eyes should be with them from now on, after all.” Leo had shifted, and Xander caught a minute change of expression on his face – of course, his bright head had already understood an implication that still left Xander confused.

 

The three figures stood and turned. Xander’s eyes first fell upon Selena – her red hair carried an implication of Hoshidan blood, and his brows furrowed with confusion.

 

She looked as stubborn and pretty as a cat, thick brows furrowed over slanted, large eyes; her face was wide, as was her build. The way her ears poked out from behind the long parts of her bangs, the way her mouth was too obviously unhappy, her eyes too obviously nervous, made it very clear that she must be of common blood, neither bred for beauty nor raised to withstand the pressure of a king’s court. But, most importantly, she was not Hoshidan; and yet, she clearly was not Nohrian, either.

 

Xander’s attention had turned toward the tallest of the three, then, toward Odin – his hair the same light color as most Nohrians, his shoulders as broad, and yet, his face had a distinct otherness about it. A strong jaw, yes, and the attire most local mages wore, but thick, dark lashes around kind eyes, a nose too wide, skin too dark - a tan, here?… Of mixed descent, perhaps? But what Nohrian would have a child with a Hoshidan? Xander looked at Odin’s smile, wide and carefree amidst the judging eyes, and he thought: perhaps the Nohrian had been simple, and perhaps his son had inherited this trait. Having lost all interest, Xander glanced over to the last one, just to see if his face would hold more answers.

 

Perhaps his low expectations were the reason why the mere sight of Laslow had been enough to break his composure, make him hold his breath for just a second.

 

Where Selena had struck him as common and Odin as simple, Laslow had captivated him by looking like neither. His eyes were big and dark, almond-shaped and twinkling with an amusement that made him look like he knew something the rest of the room didn’t. His features were fine and handsome, his nose perfectly straight, his smile well-practiced, a weapon and an instrument and yet a vulnerability all at once. Xander felt numb and nervous in his fingertips, looking at this playful smile, a helplessness growing in his chest.

 

“Father.” Xander had heard himself say, then, eyes remaining on Laslows face. “May I ask who these strangers are?”

 

Garon had huffed out a laugh, then, and it still struck Xander as odd, to this day. “Retainers that I have chosen for you, of course.”

 

Xander had been taken aback, but he had not faltered. Surprise should not be shown; protest was in bad taste, refusal deadly. The court around him began to whisper; he could imagine the gossip. The prince had taken too long to choose a second retainer; how shameful, for his father to have to pick a new one himself; how pathetic, to mourn for so long. Xander raised his voice to speak, eyes trained on one face alone.

 

“Your name?” He had asked; Laslow would later tell him that he had been terrifying, in that moment.

 

“Laslow, sire.”

 

A common name for a foreign face. Whispers came from all ends of the room; A lie? A bastard of mixed blood? He did not cut a particularly terrifying figure, either… This was supposed to protect the crown prince of Nohr? Wasn’t he too short, too young? What was the King thinking? Did he want his own son dead?

 

Xander knew that there’d be more amused whispers, as well. Everyone knew that a retainer belonged to their liege in mind and body both. Laslow was too soft for classic Nohrian beauty, but he was exotic, pretty. A plaything, they might say. Shame and fury burned in Xander’s chest. A present from father to son, given title only for show.

 

Xander drew his sword. The whispers stopped.

 

“Father,” Xander had said, calmly, “Please allow my new retainer to prove his worth to me.”

 

(I will not accept a toy. This hurts my pride. I will send him away, no matter how pretty, if he is weak.)

 

Laslow had paled. “Go ahead.” His father said. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen my beloved son fight, after all.”

 

(Fine, Xander heard, go ahead and be stubborn; I’ll have you perform before everyone, then.)

 

All eyes were on them and all mouths were shut. Laslow drew his sword too, understanding now that this wasn’t a joke, nor was he getting out of it; and yet, despite being caught off-guard and unsure just how dangerous Xander would be, his smile didn’t falter. In fact, when the room cleared and Xander raised his sword, their eyes met and—

 

Laslow winked.

 

Then, he lunged.

 

He was fast and unpredictable, and he handled his sword as if he’d been born to do so. Xander blocked him on the right, and then immediately had to block him on the left; he was given no time to do anything but defend himself and marvel at the whirlwind he was fighting. Nohr taught a style of fighting based on strength and rigid rules; it did not fare well against Laslow, who swung his sword with seemingly nothing but intuition.

 

He could not push Xander back, nor could he disarm him; while Laslow had the momentum, it still wasn’t enough to break through Xander’s sheer strength. His sword shook as it hit Siegfried, and he should have lost balance when Xander pushed him back; instead, he kept his balance, stayed upright – hell, he did so elegantly, even, one fluid movement of catching himself and jumping at Xander again.

 

He was a menace, and he had proven as much. His movements were entirely unpredictable and yet looked as beautiful as a well-practiced dance, he fought without a hint of hesitation – their eyes met, and Xander felt tight and breathless all over again – not once did his smile falter.

 

No, he smiled as if he had not a care in the world, as if he was entirely confident; even when Xander began to swing Siegfried with more resolve, began to fight back seriously, began to push him back more and more, he did not frown. Laslow swung at Xander’s arm, aiming to disarm him; Xander caught his blade in a notch of Siegfried, and forced it back to his wielder.

 

With his own sword pressed against his throat, the victor was clear. Xander stepped back.

 

“Very well.” He’d said into the silence of court, all eyes on him, every breath held; He sheathed his sword. “I will accept him into my service.”

 

Under the eyes of his father and the court, Xander takes Laslow’s jaw in between two of his fingers, and presses a kiss to his mouth to seal their contract. Then, with his retainer, he leaves he throne room.

 

 

Of course, Laslow being Laslow, it hadn’t taken very long for him to shatter that good first impression.

 

Within his first month in Krakenburg, he’d managed to forget about training more than a dozen times; time and time again, Xander was forced to roam the halls until he found him, knowing very well that every gossiping mouth in the castle would whisper, oh, Lord Xander is looking for his shameless retainer again, is he? Can’t keep him in check, can he? Time and time again, he had to drag him away from a maid, a stable girl, a kitchen hand, a knight, first by the collar, later, when he truly couldn’t take it anymore, pushing him by the back of his neck. Xander had never once heard of anyone who rose to notoriety so quickly and efficiently. Where there was gossip, there was talk of Laslow. It drove Xander insane.

 

Right away, he became friends with the guards, the soldiers, the servants. For someone who could not remember at what hour to get up, he had an impressive memory for names. Only once had Xander witnessed him accidentally call a maid by the wrong name; with a stinging cheek, he’d proceeded to frantically call apologies after her, only stopping when Xander took pity on him and grabbed him by the back of the neck again. He had a talent for making friends and a talent for ruining every flirtation. It was all in very bad taste.

 

Still, Xander should be fair. Laslow had a smile for everyone and an eye for personal troubles. He forgot his duties, but wasn’t lazy, instead helping where he didn’t need to; more than once, Xander would hear his report for the night and ask, entirely exasperated, _why_ he helped in the kitchen, _why_ he helped carrying laundry, _why_ he took the time to help particularly hopeless recruits with their soldier training. Each time, Laslow would smile, sheepish and confused, and ask: “Should I not have?”… Xander never had an answer for it.

 

Xander also found himself pleased with how well Laslow seemed to get on with Peri. As fearsome a warrior as she was, she was also eccentric, brutal in small, unnecessary ways; he seemed to manage to keep her calm and pleased, and often, he heard Peri tell him about this or that that Laslow had found on the marketplace and bought for her. A whisk with a flower motif on the handle, a little sieve to separate eggs with… Xander hadn’t even known she liked baking. “He’s funny, isn’t he, Lord Xander?” Peri asked him, leaning all the way over his desk just to show him her gifts. “He always buys people stuff! He’s really tiny, too.” He was. A head shorter than Peri, a head and a half shorter than Xander. “Do you think he squeaks when you punch him?” Peri asked, dreamily, and for some reason, Xander found himself flustered. “Only punch him when I specifically tell you to.” He instructed her, and with a pout, she promised.

 

All was well. Laslow was not a bad retainer. Xander could not complain. He should not complain. He would not…

 

…

 

…Laslow was friends with everyone but him.

 

 

He remembers that one morning, Camilla sought to speak with him; with furrowed brows and a hushed voice, she told him that she could not believe Laslow would still flirt so much despite being the lover of Selena.

 

“He is your retainer; you must- “

 

“They are lovers?” Xander had interrupted her, feeling the throbbing behind his lids worsen. Camilla had made a face, pretty lips pursed in an expression he knew meant that she was very upset.

 

“Well, they must be.” She had told him, voice dripping with conviction. “Every time they greet each other in the morning, they _hug_.”

 

Xander had nodded, fully agreeing. Why show affection to one woman so publicly and then so gracelessly chase the skirts of others? Why did he cry about rejection when he and Selena were clearly showing off that they belong to one another?

 

He remembers, then, just two days later, when Odin returned from his trip with Leo; while he and Camilla were still speaking to their younger brother, Xander had looked up to see Selena throw her arms around Odin, and him laughing and holding her, as well; and when Camilla looked pale and confused and Leo looked red and embarrassed, Xander, too, felt like he had just witnessed a terrible sort of revenge.

 

When Laslow had joined Xander to help him with preparations for his upcoming trip to Corrin that evening, Xander’s soft heart almost commanded to give him the evening off; surely, his mind must be a whirlwind, his heart in shambles…

 

Of course, Xander had not expected Laslow to spot Odin from across the hall, yell something in a tongue Xander could not recognize, and run right into his arms, where the two men held each other and laughed for a good minute.

 

Xander had felt so embarrassed and confused that he did something he hadn’t before. That night, when Laslow gave his report of the day, his hands behind his back and his smile wide and nervous as usual, he asked a personal question. “You and… Odin, and Selena,” He said, hating the way he felt embarrassed about himself, “Must you be so… public?”

 

And Laslow, the fool, had the audacity to look confused. “Public?” He’d asked, “About what?”

 

Xander cleared his throat. “Your courtship.” He finally said. Somehow, it was very easy to imagine Laslow as a bunny.

 

There was silence. Xander looked up, angered by his question being ignored so blatantly – but Laslow’s bright red face made his reprimand dissolve before it could leave his throat.

 

“We’re… not c-courting one another…!” Laslow said, in a tone that made Xander remember Peri’s theory that he might squeak if punched. “Uhm, uh, we’ve been friends since childhood – …Lord Xander, I don’t think I understand.”

 

 

As it turned out, a hug was a normal greeting in Laslow’s homeland, whatever it is. Peri heard of it and now received hugs, as well. Hello and goodbye, sometimes just with one arm, sometimes just barely a second.

 

Xander, late at night in a bed too large for one man, couldn’t help but feel embarrassed and angry at himself, for he kept wondering:

 

How can I make him hug me like that, too?

 

 

Corrins very first mission smelled of foul play. The man Xander’s father sent was a brute of low birth, his small eyes filled with smug cruelty. He was known to the women around town as a menace, someone who did as he pleased with other as though it were his birthright to rule and not to be ruled; Xander remembered arresting him very well. He also remembered the shock that came with the realization that this man was once again free when Laslow came to training black and blue and admitted, after much persuasion and a good ten minutes of him trying to deny there even were bruises, to a bar fight for a maiden’s honor. Xander had wanted to be mad, and he certainly told Laslow exactly whose honor he was affecting with behavior like this, but Laslow’s description of the man still made the gears in his head turn.

 

Hans was his name, and he was all alone with Xander’s little Corrin and their old knight, now. It did not sit right with him.

 

…So, he went behind his father’s back.

 

He had wanted to go alone, of course. Telling someone would make them complicit in his crime, and, even worse, they might tell someone else, or they might be overheard, and one way or another, the information might find his father, and… So, he’d wanted to go alone.

 

But, of course, keeping a secret is a distant dream when one has siblings.

 

Camilla found out right away, and Leo deduced what they were doing either from how they were acting or from how they were gathering supplies. Elise just noticed because everyone was acting tense at dinner, and then felt very betrayed when everyone had conspired together without telling her. She insisted on going, too. Xander was not a strong enough man to say no to her.

 

Peri had been told not to bother him for the next day, and to remember any messages left for him without telling anyone she’d give them to him later. She hadn’t quite understood, but agreed anyways; her loyalty came with no reason and no catch. Still, Xander hadn’t wanted to tell her exactly what he was going out to do; he never knew when she might make a scene, and telling her that he was going to fight without her was… Well, where anyone else might have been relieved, she would have dissolved into tears. Xander did not handle tears well. So, secrets it was.

 

Xander was packing by himself – not usually a task he had to do, but with no retainer around to help him, there was no choice left. What did he need? What could he carry? What might Corrin need? So deep in thought was Xander that he did not even hear the door open behind him.

 

“…Milord?”

 

Laslow had only been with him for two months. Of course he’d forgotten all about him.

 

Xander turned around, his face betraying nothing, but his heart aflutter with surprise. Already, his mind was racing with excuses – no, reprimands! He didn’t have to make up excuses to his own retainer!... But, in the end, he said nothing, and only furrowed his brows.

 

Laslow was… drunk. His hair and clothes were disheveled, his eyes half-lidded and shining, his cheeks pink… Xander swallowed. It took him far too long to notice the mug of tea in his hands.

 

“It’s a bit past tea time, Laslow – which you haven’t even missed today. I don’t need this.”

 

“Oh, this is mine, so I can sleep,” Laslow replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world that he had sneaked into the kitchens this late at night just to make himself tea. He glanced down to the bag in Xander’s hands. “Are you going somewhere?”

 

Xander swallowed. “…Yes.” He finally replied, figuring that an obvious lie would only draw this out. “I will not be available tomorrow. Do not mention it to anyone. You’re dismissed.”

 

And Laslow, looking nervous and clutching his tea, decided to stay and keep talking anyways, for whatever reason. “Are you going after Liege Corrin?”

 

Why did he not leave, if he was so scared of Xander? Why did he understand him so well and then still look at him so hesitantly, like even meeting his eyes was a difficult task?

 

“It’s a good idea.” Laslow went on, nervously turning the mug around and around in his hands. “I wouldn’t leave him alone with… Lord Xander?”

 

In his fists, the bag was scrunched up. His throat was tight. Then, he said something really rather foolish. “Do you hate me?”

 

As expected, Laslow’s eyes went wide. “Huh?” He said intelligently, somehow only intensifying how embarrassed Xander felt.

 

“You serve under me, and yet, you cannot even look at me. Your lateness, I can put off as one of your faults, but I know you are not this shy.” He sucked in a breath. “Have you not proven that you can hold your own against me in battle? Should it not have made you more confident with me?”

 

And, to Xander’s surprise, Laslow’s cheeks became even redder, his eyes even more elusive, his voice even smaller. “That fight, er,” He began, only to lose his momentum and his words again. For a few moments, he struggled. “I, uhm, I still don’t quite know what to make of it, actually. Milord.”

 

Xander ignored how obviously he’d forgotten and then tacked on the title. “What of it is confusing to you?” He asked instead, trying not to feel exasperated already.

 

And again, it took a while for Laslow to find his words. “The…” He shifted, glanced to the door as though he considered fleeing, and then closed his eyes. “The kiss, Milord.”

 

For a few long, awkward moments, silence filled the room.

 

“…The… Kiss?” What kiss, Xander thought dumbly; all he could remember of the day was Laslow’s foxish smile, his elegance when he fought, his own sword at his throat, and then, how he’d accepted him into his service—Xander faltered.

 

Slowly, he put down the bag. Then, he sat down at his desk.

 

“Please,” He said, tired desperation in his voice, “Please tell me your homeland, whatever it is, is familiar with the knight’s kiss, and that you did not just think me the strangest man on earth for the past two moons.”

 

Laslow did not answer. Xander, briefly, considered death.

 

“It is a tradition.” Now, he was the one who couldn’t meet Laslow’s eyes. “It is performed after two knights fight or replaces the battle entirely. It is a sign of trust and respect. I was showing the court that I was putting my trust in you, so that none might question your position as my retainer.” His cheeks were bright red. “It is not a romantic gesture, Laslow.”

 

“…Oh.” Laslow said, and Xander didn’t even dare to imagine what kind of face he was making. “I see. It’s just… Ah, it’s not important.”  


“What is?” Xander’s head was throbbing. Outside, his siblings were waiting for him.

 

“It’s just – it was my first, you see. Kiss, that is.”

 

Xander felt like everything inside of him withered and died. He took a deep breath. “I’m very sorry.”

 

And, as though he was not already surprising enough, as though it was not already hard enough to understand him, Laslow said: “No, no – I didn’t mind, but I just didn’t know what to make of it.”

 

 

I didn’t mind. I didn’t mind. I didn’t mind…

 

Laslow’s voice was on repeat in Xander’s head, going back and forth always with the same words. He didn’t mind. What didn’t he mind? How did he not mind? What was he implying? What was he trying to say?

 

Xander thought this through over and over again for hours on end, until the news came. Corrin had fallen. Xander was left with a hole in the bridge over the Bottomless Canyon and Hans as the only witness, claiming they’d fallen on their own.

 

Fury replaced any thoughts of kisses and hugs.


End file.
